Broken Bird
by IMTrinity
Summary: Sherlock comes home. It's not what he expects and everything he fears.


Summary: Sherlock comes home. It's not what he expects and everything he fears.

Notes: This is my first foray into the Sherlock fandom. I've read probably hundreds of fics but just haven't had the right amount of time to actually write anything.

This is NOT slash/pre-slash, unless you want to pretend it is, which is completely fine by me... Also, there are spoilers for Season 2 episode 3 here, so be warned.

This is in honor of the return of Sherlock. I know in theory the first episode has already been seen by some, but I started writing this back in June and decided to stick with it. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

The flat is as he remembers it. Minus just about everything in it. Unchanged. Creaky boards, still creaky. Old wine stains on the floor, check. Same kitchen table, scorch marks and all. Warped bookshelves against the far wall. So much, exactly the same. Of course, some things are to be expected. To Sherlock, 221B Baker Street has never seemed so dead. The bookshelves contain no books, just cobwebs. The floor is bare, no rug under his feet. The table is shabby-looking without his microscopes and various mismatched mugs half-filled with half-drunk tea. The armchairs- _bless them_- seem lonely without their throw pillows. The place is void of life, he realizes all too quickly.

It is an especially abysmal January evening, and the cold air seeps through every crack in the flat. No heat to turn on, of course, and no wood for the fire. Just ash and dust. The sleet-turned-rain pelts the house mercilessly, and Sherlock feels like a soppy mongrel, resisting the urge to violently shake out his hair. Instead, he disregards the droplets that occasionally fall from his curls onto the beaten hardwoods, disturbing the perfect carpet of dust.

His eyes roam but he has seen all he needs to. The flat-his flat, has not been disturbed. Mycroft was right, had seen to it. Sherlock feels momentarily placated, until his eye catches the chair. John's chair. The one he favoured over even the sofa. Opposite Sherlock's own worn-leather chair. Only then does he feel that uncomfortable lurching motion deep down inside. That awful, nervous, clammy palm feeling that nothing could remedy.

He lifts his wrist to check the time. Swipes his gloved fingers through his drenched hair. The cold feels inconsequential suddenly. Any moment now, any second... He has played out this scene in his mind for the past two years. Has his speech rehearsed. Memorized. Perfected. But as he anxiously checks his watch again, the words flee from his brain, like they never existed. An uncharacteristic panic seizes him and he forces himself into some semblance of calm. He feels funny standing there in the middle of his living room, in the dark. His eyes have already adjusted though, and the faint glow of the streetlights and car beams make their way into the flat, illuminating certain spots.

He wanders into his old bedroom. It is stripped of everything but the mattress and mismatched furniture. All his clothing is gone from the closet of course, thanks to Mycroft. Still, it feels like he only just left. It shouldn't look so foreign, he muses. But it feels nothing like home. His chest hurts, and his thoughts drift to Molly. Sad, she would say. Yes, the word is appropriate today, he thinks. He does feel a tad off. The weather certainly isn't helping matters.

A car door slams close by. Very close by. His heart skips a beat and he doesn't know what to do with himself. He stares dumbly at a spot on the wall as his ears pick up the tentative turn of the knob. His beating heart is all he hears, pulsing erratically with each familiar tread on the stairwell. He hasn't budged an inch and nearly forgets to breathe when he hears it.

"Hello?"

Soft and cautious, but so unmistakable, even whispered as it practically was. Footsteps now echo, coming further inside, and Sherlock still hasn't moved. Every scenario he envisioned never included him hiding out in his bedroom. Gathering his wits, he places his shaking hands inside his coat pockets and slowly makes his way out of the room.

The sound of footsteps cease as Sherlock steps into the main living area. The darkness is still encompassing but his eyes have already adjusted. He sees with perfect clarity the figure across the room. _He_ however-

"What the-"

"Hello, John."

* * *

John's fist connects with his left cheekbone; a direct hit, one that he isn't quite sure he anticipates, and one which he doesn't even have time to back out of. He staggers back, momentarily blinded. It instantly stings, the pain shifting to the rest of his face. He straightens out, prodding his cheek carefully with his middle finger. He squints in pain as he finds a particularly tender spot. He looks at John.

"Good hit."

It is the first coherent thought that springs to mind, and quite possibly the most inappropriate judging by the murderous glare he is receiving.

"Are you laughing at me?"

Sherlock sighs, taking in John's stance, his clenched fists, rigid, tensed-up shoulders. His eyes are a stranger's. He frowns and lowers his head. His chest heaves with another heavy sigh, releasing the shaky breath through parted lips. He winces at the painful twinge this elicits. He refrains from poking at his tender cheek again.

He lifts his eyes and meets John's. "Please let me explain." John crosses his arms; a defensive stance. His expression varies from inscrutable to hostile. Sherlock's nerves are frayed as he patiently waits for some sort of response. Finally, some of the tension dissipates as John looks down at his feet, then back up again.

"Who did we bury?"

Not what he is expecting, but judging by the tone, the half-strangled sound... clearly an important question to John.

"Moriarty."

John stares, stone-faced. Then he cracks a humour-less smile, his eyes like ice. Sherlock hates that look on John. Cold, calculating, hostile. He can't bear that it is all directed at him so he needs to look away. He's stared down murderers and terrorists, rapists and mad men, stared down death itself. All without being fazed, without fear. But the withering glare he is currently subjected to is unhinging something within him. He stalks over to the tartan easy chair, hands planted firmly on top, subconsciously shielding himself from John's impending wrath.

"We had to do it. I couldn't just leave him on that roof. It wouldn't have worked out and it needed to work flawlessly or no one would believe the ruse. I didn't honestly anticipate him blowing his brains out. The man was completely insane. I must admit I miscalculated his frame of mind and it momentarily threw me off but then I saw the cab pull up, and then you were there on the street and I knew I had to proceed. If I didn't, if I had waited-" He breaks off his rambling, his eyes flickering over to John, standing there, stoic, unblinking.

Sherlock frowns as he forgets his next thought, but then: "They would have killed you." John's brows furrow, and there, at last, an emotion that Sherlock could deal with: confusion. He licks his chapped lips and presses on.

"They were going to shoot you, John. You, Greg, Mrs. Hudson. If I didn't...kill myself. Three snipers, three lives."

John shrugs, arms still crossed. "Why?"

Sherlock's hands clench the worn fabric of the chair. "Because he knew what it would do to me. Moriarty knew who was closest to me. He knew how to get to me," he finishes with a dark whisper.

"So you faked your death? Just like that?" Sherlock nods.

"You said 'we'."

Sherlock looks on, confused. John appears exasperated before finally uncrossing his arms. "You said, 'we had to do it.' When you were referring to the roof-top." Sherlock glances away, annoyed at his memory lapse. He runs a hand through his hair. "Oh, that would be Molly."

John stares. "Molly? Molly knew?"

Sherlock nods. She...assisted me. I needed someone I could trust and-"

Wrong thing to say; he mentally smacks himself as he watches John practically flinch away from him. Stupid, stupid! "No, please, that isn't what I meant," he raises his palms, a calming gesture that does absolutely nothing to placate John. Suddenly, he starts speaking. He knows if he doesn't come out with it now he might lose John forever and he can't even _breathe_ thinking about the prospect.

"Moriarty didn't plan on Molly. He knew I always dismissed her as an annoying, unimportant party whom I used only to achieve access to her lab-" he looks away, hating himself for even speaking the words out loud. "I knew she would help me, she had practically invited the prospect. I went to her and formulated a plan. It was completely insane and I never truly thought it would come to fruition. We had everything worked out, every minor detail. The only problem was we didn't have a Plan B, so it absolutely _had_ to work if it came down to it." He is pacing now, his feet heavy on the old floor.

"She never uttered a word of protest or complaint. I owe...everything to her." He stops suddenly, his back is to John, hands clasped behind him. "Without her help I could not have achieved what I did. But even with her aid, I knew I would still need outside assistance. So I had her buy a mobile and get in contact with Mycroft. She gave him no details, but warned him that should something happen, his assistance would be greatly appreciated. I knew he wouldn't refuse. He wouldn't dare, not after the Moriarty debacle. I was right of course. He proved to be an invaluable source of knowledge during the time I was away, keeping me informed of the goings on. My dealings with Molly had finished upon her practically smuggling me out of the country. She would only contact me if an emergency arose. If something had...happened to you. I lived every single day in fear that something would happen, despite everything that I had done to ensure your safety. Thankfully, I never received her call."

He pauses, memories assailing him. He brushes them all away as he tries to revisit his time under cover. "Before I fled, Molly helped me one last time. She cut my hair off, colored it a ghastly ginger, bought me some new clothing, some trainers, more supplies. _I _did not even recognize me. For the first time since Bart's I felt like I could breathe again. Getting out of the country proved simple with Mycroft's assistance. Then I was off for France, then to Switzerland, Eastern Europe for quite a while. I traveled alone. I lived alone. I hunted alone. Only Mycroft's words on my mobile screen kept me sane and on track. That, and the thought of returning home one day." Sherlock sighs and looks down at his weathered hands. Two years, three months. And so much has changed. _He_ has changed. He thought he would feel...something upon his return. Some semblance of normalcy. Instead, he just feels like an outsider.

John shifts, his eyes never leaving the taller man, even as he paced and ceaselessly rambled. Finally, he ends up running two shaky fists through his hair. Sherlock notes his movement. John stares out the window, his jaw clearly locking, unlocking. Sherlock observes him in silence. John has allowed his hair to grow longer. A military man, he was always precise with his grooming. His hair was always a certain length, his face, clean-shaven. Clearly things have changed. A slight scruff covers the older man's face now, tiny silver flecks peek through on his chin. His sandy hair is also contrasted with a few more grays than Sherlock had remembered. He has clearly lost a bit of weight. Nothing too drastic, barely even noticeable, except of course, by the one man who _would_ take notice. He looks so...tired. A few more creases around the eyes indicate lack of proper rest, plus of course all the other minor tell-tale signs that sprung to Sherlock's attention.

When John speaks it nearly startles him. The flat has grown quiet and even the rain has been forgotten. "Did you ever even stop to think how I would take all this? How you leaping off a building right in front of me would affect me?" He ends on a bitter tone, his eyes never leaving London.

"Yes. Of course I anticipated..."

John slowly turns towards Sherlock, eyes scorching. Sherlock withers under the gaze, too cowardly to finish his statement.

"You purposefully deceived me."

"John-"

"No, you don't get to talk around this mess, Sherlock. For the past two years I have done nothing but examine every second of that day, wondering, wishing I could have said or done something differently. Something to make you get off that ledge. But the outcome is always the same. In my dreams I hear your skull hitting the pavement. I've watched men get their faces blown off in war, limbs torn clean off. But not once did I witness a friend of mine take his own life. Do you know what that _does_ to a man?" He finishes, so close to Sherlock now the other man hardly even notices his approach.

"I would have gone with you if you had only asked. I would have done anything to prevent what happened to you. What made you think that you had no other way out? You, the cleverest man I've ever known. Couldn't think of a way out that would prevent scarring me for the rest of my life?"

Sherlock reels from the harshness of it all. The raw edge in John's voice hurts more than a physical ache ever could. His breath catches in his throat as his brain processes the flurry of accusations. "John, please-".

"I'll never forgive you for this, Sherlock, not as long as I live." He stares down the taller man, eyes flickering, searching for...something, then resignation. Shaking his head in disgust, he pushes past Sherlock and marches out of the flat. Sherlock just manages not to flinch at the inevitable and predictable door-slam.

With shaky fingers, he slowly unwinds his scarf from his neck and drops it where his hand falls. Then he pops out two buttons on his coat and eases himself into the chair that used to be John's favorite. He leans forward, elbows on knees, head hung low. He can feel his heart beating against his rib cage, a wild, unforgiving thing, a frightened, broken bird.

* * *

So, it had not gone well. At all really, judging by the constant throbbing of Sherlock's face. After his reveal, John- after a few incoherent attempts at speech-communicated in the only way appropriate for the situation. And as he fled Baker Street Sherlock was left reeling, and wondering what the hell happened to his perfectly rehearsed speech.

His phone buzzes some time later, the only discernible sound save for the pelting rain. He absentmindedly glances down. Mycroft, of course. He would have hit ignore but he physically can't manage it. Still dark out. Surely hours must have passed. He looks up at the cracked ceiling, his head resting against the top of the chair, his arms hang carelessly over the sides. Languidly he reaches up, cigarette against his lips. Inhale. His arm resumes its previous repose. Phone again. It rests on top of the arm of the chair. A lazy glance once again confirms his caller. He shuts his eyes. Exhale.

His body aches, the position torture on his back. He ignores that too. He ignores everything. The cold, seeping into his bones, unrelenting. His fingers, numb. None of it matters. None of it means anything. He feels terribly alone, despite the fact that at one time he would have relished the solitude. Always, someone wanting something. Mycroft, Lestrade, the feeble-minded public. Annoying. Predictable. How he loathed them all. Oh he surely loved the thrill of it all. A nice murder always got his heart going. But that was before. Before everything went to shit. Before John.

John. His one true friend. Even now the word feels strange on his tongue. Never understood the concept. Friendship implies trust. How do you trust someone you barely know? He found it frighteningly simple with John. He never stopped to think about why precisely he was so drawn to the older man. If they weren't introduced, he would walk right by him on a street corner without pause. Just another boring face in the crowd.

Except John isn't like everyone else. He's quiet and unassuming, but fiercely loyal. He demands nothing of Sherlock. Yes, that was it. John always stood by him, always seemed to understand him, and somehow managed to keep him in line. He didn't talk down to him, like Mycroft, and he didn't humour him like Lestrade always did. He was simply...there. A welcome (for once) presence that Sherlock not only didn't mind, but actually came to appreciate and welcome.

The rain falls, and the wind howls relentlessly, an endless, agonizing wail. Sherlock has never minded the rain. It soothed him when his mind was in turmoil. The steady patter, yet another beautiful, haunting melody in his mind. Now the sound irks him, pulls him into a deeper melancholy. His bones are cold, toes numb. He bemoans the fact that his last cigarette was put to use an hour ago. There is nothing to ground him here anymore. And yet he cannot manage to leave.

Twice he's tried. Both feet planted on the floor, hands on knees, ready to stand. Deep breath, a puff of air, and- _John's face, glaring, betrayed_- he relaxes back into the cushions, defeated. Physically incapable, mentally unprepared. He knows, truly knows. Once his feet pass through the door, he will never set foot in 221B Baker Street again. And it crushes him. So he stays, selfishly trying to hold on to the last threads of an old life.

For the first time since his 'death' two years ago, he wishes for his violin. He had to leave it behind of course, without hesitation and even remorse. His life has been to hectic, too unresolved and too precarious to recall what it feels like to hold one, his chin on the rest, fingers at the ready. He misses it now. Mycroft surely has it; he would never have left it here to rot. Sherlock remembers his graduation from Uni. Remembers Mycroft approaching him at the party Mummy insisted upon, ten years his senior, almost tentatively. Sherlock hadn't cared or been pleased to see him. Wasn't pleased about the whole affair to begin with. Still, he received the heavy package from his brother with an indifferent front.

Impeccably wrapped it was, overly grandiose even by Mycroft's standards. Sherlock had sighed, placing the package on the table before ripping through the expensive paper. Mycroft patiently waited, hands clasped in front. He threw back the wrapping and stilled, hands over the rectangular...case. Yes a case, quite plain, a deep mahogany leather, a bit banged up, deep creases around the corners. Sherlock moved his hands to the brass latch, swallowing as he flipped it to open.

Breathing was futile. He had stared, and stared, slack-jawed like an idiot. The silence was overwhelming. Finally he dared to look up. Mycroft hadn't moved from his spot but now there was a barely-there expectant glimmer in his eyes. Only the slight movement of his hands revealed his impatience.

Sherlock's eyes roamed back down to the beautiful instrument lying snuggly surrounded by velvet in the ordinary case. He swallowed and grazed his fingertips over the beautiful varnish, then lifted it out, ever so gingerly. He held it out in front, carefully inspecting, his eyes darting. So, a Guarnieri del Gesu, circa 1740. Mint condition, or quite near. Unmistakable, especially given the almost crude work on the scrolls, slightly elongated F-holes, light in weight. He could have died. He cradled the priceless violin in his arms and looked at his older brother.

"Why?"

Mycroft actually shrugged. "Merely a graduation present. Perfect marks across the board. Graduated a year early." Another small shrug.

Sherlock looked back down again, as his fingers carefully caressed the flawless wood varnish. They had both played, him and Mycroft. But Sherlock had excelled. Mycroft's playing had always been passable, but Sherlock had passion. Mycroft found it a chore, whereas Sherlock found it to be an escape. When he played, the world disappeared. Nobody bothered him, accosted him, balked at him. It was just him and the incomparable sound that only a violin can produce. It was the one thing that made him happy. And Mycroft knew it.

He nodded at Mycroft. "Thank you." A quirk of the mouth, an acknowledgment. He never did ask how Mycroft could have afforded it.

Now he wishes for the escape. To drown his sorrows and wipe away the misery, if only for a few moments. His fingers itch for his bow. He used to play to help him think. It was nice, soothing. Then he played because he had an audience. He thought he would loath it but he was once again surprised. John always managed to do that. He secretly relished the fact that John liked his playing. It was the first time in a very long time that anyone had actually acknowledged it. It felt...good.

Now, there was no John to listen to his playing. The thought suddenly paralyzes him.

Goose pimples flare on his already chilled flesh as his heart spikes uncomfortably. His fists grab at his hair as his boots absentmindedly scrunch the discarded cigarette butt. So consumed by the pounding in his ears that he almost doesn't hear the other pounding. The one clattering up the stairwell. He glances up, shocked at the sight, wondering if his lack of sleep has left him hallucinating.

But no, after a few rapid blinks, John is still standing there, his breathing heavy, uneven. Sherlock makes a sound at the back of his throat but John stalls him by lifting his hand.

"No, stop." His voice is jittery and he opens his mouth before shutting it just as quickly. "Just. Give me a moment."

He doesn't look at Sherlock. Instead he places his hands on his hips and stares at the floor, breath uneven, his chest heaving. Sherlock stares, frowning, confused, but doesn't utter a word. John lifts his head, steals a look at Sherlock-and immediately glances away again. He suddenly stalks past where Sherlock sits, to the living room window. He stares out into the night, silent and pensive. There he remains, lost in his thoughts as Sherlock waits, nerves on edge.

Sherlock notices John shift his weight in his periphery. Sherlock notices everything. There is nothing uncommon with John favoring one leg over the other, except for the fact that John ceased doing just that after his cane became ornamental. John doesn't even realize he is doing it. Without even turning his head Sherlock sees the tensing of his jaw, how his brows come down just so. Eyes flickering back and forth, thinking, analyzing. What Sherlock doesn't know, what he itches to know, is precisely what John is thinking about. Oh, he can guess. He may even guess right. Or. He may realize he doesn't know John quite as well as he once did. Now a frown catches him unawares.

He waits. His patience is limitless when it comes to John. He does lean back slightly in his chair, only moderately more comfortable. His neck aches. Still he doesn't allow himself to relax. Everything still feels so...unfamiliar. Even sitting in his own flat-correction- what _used _to be his flat. His and John's. In a past life. Everything is different now. The air smells stale, dust everywhere, so unused. He feels hollow, like the flat, devoid of everything important. He swallows hard, and his chest aches. He must really quit smoking; his lungs...like a vice cruelly twisting tighter and tighter. He looks ahead, not really seeing much of anything anymore. Even John is a blur, a dark, solemn blob, just there in his periphery. His breath feels caught, deep down in his chest, something not quite right about that, he thinks, medically speaking. He swallows, gulping nothingness, finding no relief from..._Christ_.

He can't quite sit still anymore and lurches forward, elbows rest on his lap as his head drops low, his hands reaching up, grabbing, fisting his hair, shaking, needing...

"Jesus, Sherlock."

He starts as a hand comes to rest on his shoulder. He gasps, thinks he must have gasped because the dizziness is making things quite a bit incoherent. Can't be sure. The hand squeezes. He can't look up, he can't even breathe. His knees are bouncing, jittery-and when in the hell did _tha_t happen?

"Hey. Hey! Sherlock, look at me."

John. Yes, John- he'd recognize that voice anywhere. Permanently embedded in his brain because it was important to remember that voice. That memory was the only thing that kept him _sane_ for the past-

"Sherlock! Damn it, look at me! You're having a panic attack. I need you to calm down and look at me." He feels hands encase his wrists, gently, but firmly, beseeching. The contact feels nice. Familiar. Warm. And he's still so damn cold, he must be because he can't stop shaking and his jaw kills from the strain of clenching it so tight. And the hands are tugging again, oh so gently. Finally his fingers relax enough and are pulled slowly away, guided down to rest on his quivering knees.

His head nearly droops further still, unwilling to follow the simple order John is giving him.

"Look at me, Sherlock." John's voice is soft, but authoritative. Sherlock detects a hint of panic. He wants to look up, wishes his brain could agree to this but he doesn't dare because he can_ feel_ John. And he's so close, right in front of him, confident fingers rubbing soothing circles across his pale wrists. Always the doctor. Always the strong one.

"I-" No, speaking is futile he foolishly realizes. Not because he has nothing to say, but because there is not _enough_ to say to John, to rationalize his actions, to properly explain the depths of his nightmares. And that's why he can't even look at the man, because he is a coward and because he can't bear to see what he thinks he will see.

"Sherlock. Please, just...please."

And that tone he recognizes, and absolutely cringes at the memory, because he _never_ wants to hear it again and so he must look up because he can't stand the thought of John speaking to him like that, just like he once did when he watched his best friend leap off a building. That awful, pleading, desperate tone that just cuts through Sherlock like a damn blade, over and over again, until there is nothing left remaining or recognizable.

"Don't," he manages, even as his chest constricts and protests. The sudden movement makes him feel light-headed and strange. He shuts his eyes, just for a moment, and remembers to breathe. It is not without difficulty but slowly his heaving chest works out a good rhythm, until finally he exhales deeply, the air leaving his lungs, uneven but stable. Then he opens his eyes.

Everything is a bit blurry; his eyes rapidly blink away the annoying moisture. Suddenly he feels incredibly weary and sleep seems imperative. But then he notices John and all previous thoughts of rest flee. John, on his knees in front of _his_ chair, his eyes level with Sherlock's. His hands still on his wrists, just resting now, for assurance. The ridiculous moustache, a perfectly illogical decision, surely. He blinks. The older man's concern is evident, and Sherlock wants to reassure him somehow, but he feels too drained at the moment, like coming off a bad high, which he can certainly attest to.

He clears his throat. It feels dry, irritated. "I apologize," he hears himself say. It sounds all wrong though. He licks his lips and tries again. "I'm sorry, John." He stares at the other man, can feel the tension roll off him in excruciating waves. Emotions at war. John averts his eyes and Sherlock tenses up again. There was a time when nothing about Sherlock fazed John. Even when he knew he was being an idiot. John was always there for him, in his corner, an assurance. Now the man wouldn't-couldn't even look him in the eye. John is right in front of him and Sherlock feels more alone than ever.

"John-", his breath catches and he can feel his eyes fill, _damn_ them. And now it is him that turns away, blinking away the tears, hating how futile the gesture is, loathing how easily his body betrays him. He feels a harsh tug then, John's warm hands around his wrists, pulling him back. Naturally he reacts, his eyes instantly flicker to John's. His cheeks feel wet and he automatically tries to reach up, to wipe the moisture away, but John is still clasped on, insistent.

His jaw is clenched so tight, even John notices. Sherlock doesn't try to finish his sentence. He doesn't even know anymore what he wants to say. All he knows is John is looking at him, his face a mixture of sadness and yes, even anger. Resentment. His brow knitted tight, his eyes stormy, intense. Sherlock stills completely but John's grip doesn't ease up.

"I am so fucking angry right now, Sherlock. You can't even begin to process how angry I really am," he says with an even voice that doesn't quite mask his frustration. Sherlock doesn't move an inch.

"There are not enough words to describe the depth of my...disappointment." Sherlock knows he means to say 'pain', can practically feel it reverberating around John.

"What you've put me through..." he looks down, collects his thoughts. Sherlock wants to do _something_. To reassure. He doesn't though. He hears John sigh, shaky and so loud in the stillness of the flat. The sound is heart-breaking.

"Damn it, Sherlock! How can someone as brilliant and intelligent as you not get it? You died for me, Sherlock! You were dead and that was it. You were in the ground, decomposing with each passing day, as insects crawled over your cold flesh. You died...That was it for me, the finality of it all. God, Sherlock, I had to see my psychiatrist again. Don't you get it? You died and left me here alone, to wonder-to deal with all this. Your loss, and the rumors and the fraud nonsense and people constantly interfering. I had to deal with it. By myself. The news reporters and the damned press and the infuriating public, and all I fucking wanted was to be left alone and to just block out the whole world and pretend none of it ever happened." He pauses, his eyes squeeze shut. Sherlock's throat feels constricted and a million thoughts flit though his mind. But he doesn't trust his voice at the moment, and instead waits for John to continue.

"I know you didn't mean to- I know you would have done things differently..." His brow creases as if he has no idea where his thoughts are leading him. His grip falters on Sherlock's wrist but neither of them move away.

"I hated you for the longest time, you know. Hated you for leaving the way you did. Dying. And right in front of me like that. No closure. No answers. And I realized many months later that some small part of me left as well. I felt strangely empty, like something was missing. I couldn't even bring myself to care about my job any longer. I used to love doing what I do. Curing people, helping people. Now it seems pointless. Because the one person I wanted to help was _dead_."

Sherlock's face is moist again, but he barely notices this time. His mind is solely on John, staring forlornly into space, spirally twin trails flowing down his cheeks as well.

"I'm a damned idiot," Sherlock chokes out. "I didn't even stop to think-and Mycroft warned me but I ignored him like I always did. Sentiment!" He scoffs, bitter and unamused. "He's one to talk." He shakes his head, finally rubbing the wetness off his face. He looks squarely at John. "Even Molly cautioned me. She told me it would kill you. I didn't listen to her. To either of them. You were always stronger than me, John. If anyone could move on then it would have been you. I am so stupid," he finishes with a whisper, his head bending down once more. His heart is battering against his ribs, threatening to break through. He deserves this, he thinks. He deserves John's anger, his wrath. He doesn't deserve to be his friend. What kind of friend would do what he did?

He must have uttered the last bit out loud because he suddenly hears John responding. "One who is loyal." Sherlock's head snaps up. "Someone who cares so much he is blinded by anything else," he continues, then looks, really looks at Sherlock. His eyes flit across the younger man's face, finally settling on pale blue. "I would have done the same if I could keep my friends safe". Resolute. Accepting. Sherlock is at a loss for words.

John slowly gets to his feet, his knees protesting with a creak. He stands over Sherlock and slowly extends his hand. Sherlock looks at the offer, brow furrowed. Then he glances at John, his face neutral. Carefully, Sherlock reaches for the proffered hand, his own ice-cold fingers wrap around John's surprisingly warm ones. The handshake lasts for all of two seconds because Sherlock is suddenly pulled to his feet and enveloped by John, his strong arms practically crushing Sherlock's much lighter frame. Momentarily shocked, Sherlock reaches up as well and his fingers find John's back. He is far more unassuming, unsure. He is not used to this... And John, being John is perfectly aware of this. He releases Sherlock and stands back, clearly chagrined at the situation. "Sorry," he says.

Sherlock feels his lip quirk. "Don't be. It's all fine." John looks at Sherlock and slowly nods. He eases himself down in his old chair, stiff at first, hands splayed over the dusty fabric of the arms. A finger brushes over the familiar pattern, muted and plain, but homey all the same. He sits all the way back, testing the feel and Sherlock dares not move.

A moment of silence passes and John remains sitting. Sherlock's breath leaves him, tension ebbing and his feet back up into his own worn leather piece. He needs to sit or he will pass out. He remains rigid upon the cushions however, eyes locked on John. John stares past Sherlock, unseeing, miles away.

Sherlock smooths his clammy hands over his trousers, his back rod straight. Belatedly he realizes the rain has stopped, but now his pulse hammers loudly in his ears. He is bone crushingly tired, the exhaustion threatening to pull him down, take him away. He tries to shake it off but the air is too still, and John is no more than a statue.

"John?" His voice sounds too loud but it gets John's attention. Warm eyes catch his own, a brief flicker of apology settling on his brow, and then a soft voice whispers, "I'm fine, Sherlock. Really I am." Then John's mouth relaxes and his eyes shut, breath calm and placid. And Sherlock _finally_ allows his body to unwind, the strings pulled so tight for so long he wonders why he hasn't snapped apart already.

A soft sigh escapes his parted lips as he melts into the soft leather. His heart is beating madly but this time is different. The panic has left him, replaced with something akin to hope. He doesn't deserve his friendship, he thinks, for about the hundredth time.

"Where are you staying tonight?" John breaks the silence. Sherlock looks up, startled to be asked such a mundane, simple question. He clears his throat.

"Mycroft," is all he says. John nods, clearly expecting the answer. Their eyes meet, the moment stretches. Then John is standing, his knees groaning disapproval. He comes to stand by Sherlock's chair, one hand creeping into his jacket pocket.

"Suppose we should head out then, before we freeze to death in here."

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, then changes his mind. He stands, stuffs both of his hands into his Belstaff and merely nods in assent. John is already heading towards the door and Sherlock can hear his steps bound down the narrow stairwell. He suddenly bolts after him, scrambling down the steps, his hands on the walls for purchase. He rushes past the doorway, into the chill of the night. John is there on the stoop, back to Sherlock. He turns, however, when he hears the clamor coming from the stairwell.

Sherlock's eyes are completely wild as he sees John standing there, mouth slightly agape, his breath leaving visible puffs in the cold air.

"Sherlock, what-"

"John, wait-"

They both stop, John's brows rising to his hairline. Sherlock takes a second to compose himself, and his thoughts.

But John beats him to it.

"What are your plans for tomorrow?" Now Sherlock finds himself staring, mouth parted, mind a jumble.

"Plans?" he manages. John comes to stand in front of him. "Yes, for tomorrow. Do you have anything important to do? I thought we could meet up maybe, for lunch or something. Maybe talk…" he trails off, eyes darting up Baker Street.

Sherlock's chest constricts as he stares at John. John, whom he feared might be lost to him forever. Who could disappear as soon as he steps off the stoop. He has every right. He could leave Sherlock, and never look back. Except that he wasn't leaving. He was asking Sherlock about _plans_. For the next day.

John must have followed his train of thought, because suddenly his hand was gripping Sherlock's elbow, his eyes steady, understanding.

"Sherlock, I'm right here, okay? I'm not going anywhere, except maybe to bed. It's late, and we both clearly need sleep so, let's get together tomorrow. Noon okay?"

Sherlock nods slowly, his eyes never leaving John's.

"Alright then." He lets go of Sherlock's arm and places his freezing hands in his pockets. "The old pub around the corner okay with you?"

"Fine," whispers Sherlock.

"Good. Well then, goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John." He stands a moment longer as he watches John hail a cab, then lifts up his collar and walks the opposite direction, back towards Mycroft's borrowed car. Exhausted, emotionally drained and just plain run-down, he can hardly wait to lie down. And now he felt he can do so with a much lighter heart.

End.


End file.
